


I never told you

by CrazyChicken



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, post-transfer, sad/open ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyChicken/pseuds/CrazyChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco hears the news and is heartbroken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I never told you

**Author's Note:**

> This is not really a story, this is just me dealing feelings that need to go somewhere. I wrote it just after Mario's transfer news came out, but never came to editing blah blah. It's very emotional and my friends cried when reading it and told me I should warn you beforehand, but they also said that Götzeus is eternity and of course this isn't what happened.

It was just past midnight and the entire house was dark, the only light coming from Marco’s cell phone. He had read the news over and over again, but the sentences were the same as they had been this morning. Simple and purposeful. He knew millions of people would read this carelessly. He knew he had read millions of articles like this one, without so much as a care. Sometimes they were interesting, but he always skipped over major parts. But this one was different; he made sure not to skip any word, for he felt like maybe, if he read well enough, or read between the lines, he would find somewhere that it was all just a joke. That on the bottom of the page it would say “April’s Fool!”, even though it had been twenty-two days since April’s Fools Day. It wasn’t a joke, he had figured after reading it the tenth time. It was real; way too real.

When he first read it, the news was still so surreal, so incredible. But then he realised it was true, this was actually happening and he felt like he had been hit by a truck, the pain paralysing his body in an instant. He had felt goose bumps rising on his skin, even though it was spring and he was wearing a warm sweater. (A real one, a yellow one.) He felt his body somehow sit down on the couch, then lie down and curl up into a little ball, and as he still tried to think of possible explanations for this ( _It’s a lie. It’s a joke. It’s another Mario._ ), he could feel something getting stuck in the back of his throat. And before he could even think about what that meant, he felt his cheeks becoming wet with tears he couldn’t, for the love of god, contain. They burned his skin, leaving red streaks across his face. His stomach hurt like hell and it scared him that sadness could be this physical. He is leaving, the thought kept ringing through his head. Maybe it shouldn’t be the end of the world, but for some reason he felt everything crumbling down around him. _He is leaving me._

 

Now Marco was in bed, reading the article one last time before he went to sleep, he promised himself. He hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, but he wasn’t hungry. Not really. All he wanted was to throw up, as if something that would solve anything. As if he could throw out the feelings as well.

He tried to find new explanations again. It could not be true. Mario had been feeling so perfectly fine at Dortmund, he had always said to be happy. He had told everyone he felt no need to leave. Maybe one stupid site came up with the idea, because of some stupid rumour. Marco knew the media and what they were capable of. One blog could shout something and within a few hours the entire world would know, no _believe_ it, every site repeating the words as if they were truths. Something like that must have happened, Marco thought. It all looked pretty real, fair enough, but it couldn’t be real. He knew Mario better than anyone could make him believe, even when the internet was spreading lies about him.

And maybe, the thought crossed Marco’s mind, it was all just a dream. He had never been really good at telling when he was dreaming, so it wouldn’t be any surprise to him if he would wake up the next day, wrapped up in Mario’s arms, who always comforted him when he told him he had had a bad dream. They had always been like that, even when Marco was still in Monchengladbach. They would call each other in the morning sometimes and inform each other about their nightmares, and Mario always found the best ways to convince Marco what was real and what wasn’t. That the phone call was real and that he was real. That _they_ were real.

_It’s just like that_ , Marco promised himself and closed his eyes. If he would open them, Mario would be there, or maybe he would be in the kitchen making them breakfast, or humming _One Time_ under the shower. Marco fell asleep quickly, because he could only hope that this dream would be over soon. He was fine.

 

When Marco woke up, he instantly felt something was wrong. It wasn’t the innocent kind of wrong he was used to feeling; wondering in whose bed he was, or how he ended up on the couch, or the way his body could hurt after sleepless nights. All those moments Mario had been there next to him; but the moment he looked around he realised why this moment was so wrong. He wasn’t there.

Marco stood up way too quickly and felt dizziness get to his head, his vision blocking out a bit, but he didn’t care, he needed to know. When he entered his living room, it was empty. There was a crumpled up blanket hanging from the couch, a glass of water that was only half full, a yellow sweater in the corner. In the kitchen he found a carton of milk and a cutting board with breadcrumbs and a knife. There was a wet towel on the floor in the bathroom and the toilet seat was up. It was his own apartment, with all the tiny little things that marked the way he lived here and the way Mario lived here sometimes. But the object of his affection was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned his head against the cupboard in the bathroom. He clenched his fists around a fresh towel as he closed his eyes and watched the memories crash back into his vision, dizzying him even more. The good times and the bad times, their celebrations and their fights, all the times Mario’s smile had welcomed he when he stood at his door, and all the door he had to watch him leave and something inside him hurt like hell, despite knowing he would be back.

It could not be real, he thought. The world spun around as if he were waking up, blurring up his vision before everything around him got back into its usual shape and he was still standing there, softly banging his head against the cupboard, having to face the fact that this wasn’t waking up from a nightmare. This was waking up into a nightmare.

“Fuck!” he screamed, digging his nails into the soft material of the towel. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. Anyone could have gone to Bayern, they had enough to money the buy the fucking world. Why Mario?

The worst part wasn’t even Mario leaving Dortmund, or Mario leaving him; what hurt the most was Mario not telling him about anything. If what was said on the internet was true, Jürgen had known since Thursday. If he knew, why hadn’t anyone told Marco? How come that, after all the things they had been through, it didn’t cross Mario’s mind one second to tell his best friend? A simple phone call would have been enough. Even a text would have done. But somehow Mario had decided that Marco wasn’t important enough to be notified.

This last year had been so magical to Marco. They had grown so close, to a point where they could feel each other’s presence even when they were apart. He remembered Robert testing it one time: they blindfolded him and let several teammates sit next to him and Marco had to recognise Mario by the sound of his breath. He hadn’t had any doubt; it was the easiest thing to do at the time. Mario had become a major part of his life, had changed the way he looked at everything in life, had made him feel like he could be the rest of his life. But apparently Mario didn’t think that way about Marco. Marco wasn’t the main plot in his story, he was just a footnote in his biography and he would never be more than that. It angered him that Mario had made him feel like he was more, like their friendship meant anything to him.

The arrogant prick had lied to him all this time: about feeling happy in Dortmund, about his dreams in life, about his feelings for Marco. Maybe he was just right there, in Munich. They had made fun of Bayern so many times, talking about the arrogance of the club. Maybe that was where Mario belonged now.

His fist hit the cupboard a few times and Marco didn’t even realise it until he noticed the dent in the wood. For some reason, it felt good. To see the impact his fist could have on the innocent material. If only he could hurt Mario like this, make him feel the pain that Marco was experiencing. If only...

 

“You. Fucking. Douchebag!” Marco didn’t even wait for Mario to step aside, just walked right over him into the house. He didn’t care if his parents heard. Anyone could hear this, should hear this.

When he turned around and looked at Mario, he was still standing at the door, looking both surprised, hurt and guilty. “I’m sorry...”

“Why would you leave for Bayern? They wear Lederhosen down there, you know.” They would have laughed about it in better times.

“But they wanted me,” Mario said. It was poor defence and he knew that as well as Marco, whose face turned to disgust.

“They _wanted_ you?! Well, in that case, you’re right. You should totally leave, because that’s really a strong argument, you know. _They want you._ ” Marco shouted and made ugly faces and it wasn’t a pretty conversation at all, it wasn’t how he had planned it too be, but his anger was much worse than he had expected it to be. When Mario didn’t protest, Marco let the words flow. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I want you too? That people need you here? Of course not, you’re so selfish. I hope you have fun down there.” He was about to leave again when Mario stopped again.

“I know that it’s all really new and you can’t understand it, but please, let it sink in. For me, it was the right time to make the right decision.”

“The right ti... Do you ever hear yourself talking? Fuck, Mario, moving to the enemy is _never_ the right decision. And, and, have you ever thought about telling me before you spread the word? Have you ever thought that maybe it would have been more easy to understand for me if I had heard it from you, with your own explanations and reasons and just... I don’t know. Your face? Doesn’t it bother you that you were celebrating your transfer while I was at home crying because for some reason you couldn’t even get yourself to call me after this news? You’re a lousy friend, Mario. A really lousy friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Mario’s poor defence was gone and he had turned to attack. “Don’t you realise this is great for me? I am making history here and you, supposedly perfect, aren’t even supporting me in this. All you do is whine about you weren’t personally informed by me about the situation, but you know what? That’s how things go sometimes.”

Mario was saying stupid things, things he would have never said half a year ago, when everything was still fine and they were on cloud nine. This wasn’t Mario Götze; this was some weird creature Marco, indeed, would never understand, but right now, he felt like he didn’t even want to anymore. He was done with Mario.

“That’s all you have?” he whispered, anger disappearing from his voice. He wasn’t even sad or mad or broken; just disappointed. “I’m sorry then, it was stupid of me to come here. Goodbye, Mario.”

As he walked down the path back to his car, he heard Mario talking to him. “Are we still friends?”

Marco gritted his teeth and grimaced before he turned around to raise his shoulders.

“But we’re still teammates, right? We still have to win tonight.”

Marco had forgotten about the Champions League, but he had admit he didn’t care for winning anymore. In fact, he would like to see Real Madrid win, just to keep Mario away from the trophy. All Mario thought about was winning the game, losing sight of what he was losing.

 

They didn’t arrive together at the game against Real Madrid, but nobody questioned it. They all knew how close they were, but they also knew that they had probably been fighting earlier that day. Most people avoided both their glares, afraid that one wrong look would get them killed. They didn’t say anything to each other, Marco mumbled a few words to Robert, but Mario stayed silent all the time.

Marco was still mad, but being in one room without touching, talking or even stealing stupid glances was killing him all the same. When he shot one accidental look at Mario, his initial intention was to go over and hug him and which him good luck and touch his arm gently but sufficiently and maybe even tell him how much he cared, but then he realised he couldn’t, because he was still mad and ignoring him and he didn’t want Mario to feel like Marco had been the one who did the wrong in this situation. Because after all, it was all Mario’s fault.

Somehow the game changed his mood. He found a way of losing his anger in the game. From the first minute he was determined to play more passionate than he had ever played. He didn’t just want to prove how good he was, to show the world – and mostly a certain person – he was still perfectly capable of playing; he also needed to lose his frustration in some way, and he figured that giving two hundred percent of himself to the game was a better way to do so than biting an opponent.

When they played, they weren’t involved in complicated relationships or heated fights. There was only the ball and the way they could blindly find each other on the pitch. By the time it was halftime, Marco had almost forgotten about their earlier ‘discussion’. He sat down on the bench next to Mario without thinking, like he had all those months, and they listened to Jürgen as he gave them some last-minute advice, although there was not much to be said. Mario was drinking from his bottle absent-mindedly, when Marco gently shoved his knee against Mario’s.

“You’re good,” he said, breathily and for a moment nothing had happened. Or maybe a lot had happened, and that was the point. Robert was the one whose name would be on the stats, but they had been an important part of both goals too. It was still _their_ match. No matter what everyone had said about him, he played with a yellow heart, which was something Marco respected more than anything.

“You too,” Mario replied, they smiled and everything was back to normal again.

A thought crossed Marco’s mind, a single spark of hope, but it was loud and clear; Mario hadn’t signed anything. Something in the way he had played today, and the way he had been at half-time, made Marco feel like it wasn’t over, like the world hadn’t ended yet. This victory had been incredible and maybe, just maybe, they could win the Champion’s League and Mario would change his mind and stay here forever and everyone would live happily ever after.

Marco didn’t want to give in to his thoughts, told himself he didn’t even Mario to stay after all the bad things he had said or done, but he could not deny that everything he thought about Mario he remembered that he was going to leave and that was like a very painful stab in his stomach.

With the second leg still to play, nothing was certain, but they celebrated as if they had already won. They danced on the pitch, their home, and they hugged and touched and Marco touched Mario thought and they didn’t even think about the colour red for a moment. They only thought about this moment and celebrating and how they usually celebrating, and when their eyes met again – for the first time in what felt like forever – Mario saw a sparkle and a promise and his stomach turned upside down because, _god_ , he was in love.

They smiled and screamed and laughed all the way to the locker room, and then back to Marco’s apartment. He was only vaguely aware of the fact he had dragged Mario along, of the fact that Mario’s car hadn’t taken his own car and he had accidentally on purpose missed the exit to Mario’s house. The latter could barely keep his hands off of him in the car. Horny driving was even more dangerous than drunk driving, Marco knew well enough. It wouldn’t be the first time he got pulled over with his zipper down and Mario smiling semi-innocently next to him, as he blushed and tried to explain that it was acceptable to cross the speed limit after you just won. But to be honest, it never worked.

They made it home safely, and against all odds they were both fully dressed when they arrived at his apartment. Dragging Mario into his apartment, Marco started rewarding his lover with sweet, wet kisses in his neck.

“I thought you were mad,” Mario said, although he shouldn’t have. Marco didn’t reply, but his face turned red and he not-so-softly bit Mario’s neck, his hands roaming possessively under his clothes.

“Are you in a rush?” Mario giggled, when Marco zipped down his vest halfway down the hall.

“You have no idea,” Marco answered. He locked their lips together again, anxious to saviour every single second they had left together. Maybe it shouldn’t feel like that, shouldn’t feel this desperate, but he needed to have Mario. He needed his sweet kisses and his comforting whispers and his hot body and his beautiful eyes and he could not imagine living a life in which he had to miss all those little things. Because if he thought about it, there wasn’t much to life without him. He had his friends and his hobbies, of course, but it wasn’t the same. He would never have the love again. Mario would leave a gap that could never be filled after he left.

Mario knew the apartment well enough to turn on the light switch with his eyes closed, lost in a heated kiss. He found himself stumbling over his own feet and holding on to Marco, so he wouldn’t fall.

“Please,” Marco begged as he pushed Mario down on his bed, and Mario nodded, although none of them knew what Marco was begging for. He pinned Mario’s arms down and Mario didn’t protest, didn’t even to try to push back for a moment, just gave himself over to Marco. He wasn’t usually like this, Marco thought, as he firmly pressed his lips on Mario’s. Mario liked to be in charge, liked to at least play a little, but the lack of resistance startled Marco. And when he backed off and looked at Mario, he saw tears running down his cheeks. Instead of kissing them away, Marco sat low on Mario’s belly and cried with him. He wasn’t really aroused, rather desperate, and he shouldn’t feel sad after a victory, but he did.

Marco let go off his wrist and held Mario’s hands instead, entangling their fingers above Mario’s head. Resting them on the sheets, he caressed the back of Mario’s hand, in an attempt to comfort him.

“Please,” he repeated before leaning down again. His nose pressed into Mario’s cheek and his breath was uneven. All he wanted to do was to enjoy tonight, but he was too anxious to do so. He took Mario’s clothes off too quick to take the time to appreciate his body and he hated it; he hated the fact that half of his heart wanted to just fuck until he couldn’t see straight, just to forget all the reasons that made him cry, while the other half just wanted to make sweet slow love to Mario and just lay with him for the rest of the night, or preferably the rest of his life. His ambiguous intentions ended up in a blurry mess of tears and whispering ‘I love you’ and disposed clothes on the floor and rough unfocussed movements.

Marco was so hurried he didn’t even reach for the lube on the side table, which made a hint of panic flutter in Mario’s eyes.

“Will you go easy on me?” he whispered so softly it was barely audible, but Marco’s face was close enough to his, held in place by Mario’s clam hands. He needed to feel secure about this, although never in the million times they had made love, had Marco crossed any line. But he needed to ask this, as if it were more important than it was; as if it wasn’t just about tonight, but also about all the years to follow.

“Always,” Marco promised, before he kissed Mario again, quick but passionate.

As they got it on, Mario gave himself over to Marco, letting him in control of all his pleasure and doing nothing but moan as Marco kept changing pace and angle. Somehow it wasn’t sex what Marco was doing; he was telling a beautiful sad tragic story with the tears still streaming down his face. His movement were rough and quick, but it was never just fucking; he was telling Mario all the things he never told him although he should have. And as they came simultaneously, they knew it could be the last time, and they cried together as Marco collapsed on Mario’s chest.

“Why would you leave?” Marco said when he had caught his breath. The post-orgasm tiredness was sinking in and he was feeling drunk with emotional, and about to say things only a hopeless romantic could say. “Just look at what we’ve done today! Weren’t we amazing? You haven’t signed anything, right? You can stay.”

He looked at Mario with a hopeful smile, as the latter wiped off the tears of Marco’s pinkish cheeks.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Mario answered as he felt the tears welling up in his eyes again.

“Why not?” Marco asked concerned. “I mean, everything is great here. You have your friends here, your parents, Felix. Me.”

“It’s not enough,” Mario answered a bit too quickly and he realised he had broken Marco. In four simple words he had said that winning trophies and working under Pep Guardiola meant more to him than Marco, and even though that was not what he had meant – and it wasn’t true either, anyway – he could not unsay it.

Marco fought against the tears, because he had cried enough; today and yesterday and the entire week. But somehow he still had enough left to cry over, and somehow he still seemed to lose the fight. He had always lost fights, he realised. In the better days, fights over who would top tonight, but of lately about more important things. For example, he couldn’t make Mario stay. He couldn’t even make Mario love him the way he had a year ago, when he had just come to Dortmund. The way it had been in the summer had been magical, but it was part of his past now, and he knew that had to let it go. Their friendship had grown into something even stronger, something that may even survive the distance, but he knew he couldn’t make Mario stay. He wasn’t strong enough. That, and the fact that he just wasn’t _enough_ killed Marco inside.

 

When Marco woke up Mario was gone. The empty space beside him on the bed was cold, as if there had never been anyone. He wasn’t in the kitchen making breakfast like he used to. He wasn’t in his underwear on the couch, playing the single-player version of their favourite games. He wasn’t in the shower, singing songs that he believed nobody could hear. There wasn’t a note on the kitchen table, or on the fridge, or on the TV. Mario had left and had erased all his traces; just as if he had never been there.

Marco went over his apartment again, trying to find some clues, some proof that it hadn’t all been a good dream. He checked his closets and didn’t find his borrowed sweater. He checked his drawers and didn’t find his borrowed CD’s. He went to the shower and didn’t find Mario’s shampoo. Once upon a time he believed these things weren’t borrowed anymore; that they would just stay here, in his apartment, until eventually this would become their apartment and somehow, everything he and Mario separately owned would become theirs. But now Mario had proven that all things come to an end, the good and the bad; but Marco just couldn’t see how.

He dialled Mario’s number but it went to voicemail after ringing five times. He didn’t leave a message because he knew Mario wouldn’t check it anyway. People did in movies, in romantic comedies; they left twenty messages, varying from very romantic to very stressed to very drunken to very ashamed, and eventually the other person would call back and say “I love you” and everything would fall into place. But Marco knew well enough that things wouldn’t just fall into place again because of a stupid unanswered phone call. Or because of anything, for that matter. All he really wanted was for Mario to come back to Dortmund.

He hadn’t been really _gone_ the day before; he had had the plans and the ambitions, had made the arrangements, but he hadn’t been gone. His heart had still been in Dortmund, on the pitch and in the bed and anywhere next to Marco. But when Marco woke up that morning, even the last part of Mario had disappeared.

Marco could only cry and think about the dark side of everything. He could only see the doom and the darkness ahead; could only think about the distance that would be between them and not the fact Mario had promised so many times that he would always be there, in his heart. Marco could only think of how it could have been, how it should have been, how it was and how it wasn’t. It made him feel a feeling close to regret, except he didn’t regret a certain action he had ever been able to control; he just regretted the fact that Mario wasn’t here.

In his life he had read stories. Seen movies. Heard songs. All of them spoke about heartbreak, not the teenage kind, but the real kind; the kind that left you hopeless and hurt you physically and nailed you to ground, so you could only stand and watch your world crumble around you. He hadn’t imagined he would ever feel this way; or maybe one day, when he was old and grey and his wife died and he wouldn’t know what to live for. But now all the feelings were plain for him – Mario was gone and life lost meaning.

 

Days started fading together. He wasn’t really sure what day it was and always had to rely on Robert, who picked him up for training and games. He didn’t ask many questions and Marco was grateful for that, but sometimes they talked. When they had the next day off, Robert would sometimes come to Marco’s apartment and they would just sit and talk. First Marco told his side of the story, over and over again, constantly reformulating sentences he had used in previous versions of the same story. Then after a while, Marco stopped telling the same story and informed Robert on the latest updates instead, usually consisting of “Mario didn’t reply to my messages” or “Mario was cold at training today” or “we were going to have coffee, but Mario backed out at the last moment”. Basically, he told Robert how they were growing apart and how Mario had left his life.

Then Marco started telling him how he felt, and Robert played the therapist. “And how do you feel about that?” wasn’t an uncommon question, but the answer was always different. At first Marco told him he hadn’t felt much – or not very different. But then he admitted to the anger that had at one point settled inside his stomach. He explained to Robert how, after the home-game against Real Madrid, hope had returned to him and he had begged Mario to stay. Then all he could feel was an overwhelming sadness that became rather clear to Robert when Marco started crying on his lap. He caressed Marco’s head, ran his fingers in Marco’s hair and whispered a few of his favourite words.

Marco sat up straight and looked at Robert as if he saw him for the first time; wondering and uncertain. Then he leaned in to kiss him, right on the lips. At first, Robert was startled, but once he regained consciousness he pushed Marco away.

“You’re not doing this because you like me,” Robert informed in, creating some proper space between Marco and him to stress his point. “You do this because you’re so desperate to get over Mario while in fact you’re not and kissing other guys behind his back is barely a way to solve your problem.”

“I don’t have a problem,” Marco complained, but he knew it wasn’t true. He had a problem, and although he was so sure Robert could have gotten him through it all, maybe his friend couldn’t solve everything, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Look,” Robert started, his face gone all red. “I like you very much, Marco. You are pretty and cute and nice and beautiful and talented and friendly and funny and just insanely awesome... what was I saying again?”

Marco found it hard not to laugh at him, despite his bad mood. “You were about to say something very serious, I believe.”

“Yes. Oh yes!” Robert’s face grew even redder, if possible. “You should talk to Mario.” Marco opened his mouth to interrupt him, but Robert didn’t let him. “I know you want to say this is a stupid cliché and talking doesn’t solve a thing, but you used to talk so much. I remember a time when I was seriously doubting the existence of your sex life because you were just talking all the time. Even at parties, you just sat in a corner and talked. It was so cute, I swear, Marco.”

“You’re straying from the subject again, Rob.”

“Yes, right. What I meant to say is that talking has always been a key word in your relationship and it has always fixed everything so far. You’ve always had such a open relationship with him. Don’t frown, I know you could discuss anything with him. That’s why I think you should talk.”

“I can’t make him change his mind, Robert. I told you, he has made his decision.”

Robert sighed. “I’m not saying you can. In fact, I’m pretty sure you can’t. I know what he’s going through.” His voice lowered as his eyes turned to the ground. “It’s not like he doesn’t love you, or like he doesn’t want to be in Dortmund. He just wants to... he’s young. He wants to do everything there is to do.” His eyes went up again, yet avoiding Marco’s gaze. “But anyway. He’s going away. But you need to clear the air, need to know you’re in line with him. I bet that if you tell him how you feel, he will tell you how he feels.”

“Which is?”

“How would I know?” Robert snapped back. “Marco, you must understand that it won’t change a thing about his decision and maybe not even about your relationship or your life, but you need to talk to him about this in order to get over it. If you hear him out, you will one day be able to put it beside you.”

It remained silent for a long time as Marco let the words sink in, not really noticing the tears on his face. Lately it had been like he was crying all the time anyway. Eventually, it was Marco broke the silence.

“I have a problem.”

It wasn’t a question, he was merely stating what Robert had already claimed before.

“Which will be fixed,” Robert added as he put a friendly hand on his thigh. “Everything will be alright.”

 

“Hey,” Marco heard a familiar voice say behind him and he felt his stomach turn upside down. The quick kiss on his cheek was awkward and distant and Marco’s eyes grew wide in surprise at the sudden touch.

“Hey,” he replied as he tried to keep his voice calm. “How are you?”

“Better, thank you. How are you?” Mario sat down on the chair across the table.

_What do you think, asshole?_ “I’m fine.”

“Good, good.”

Mario gave him an uncomfortable smile, before turning his eyes off. “Let’s see...” he mumbled as he picked up the menu. “Have you had lunch yet?”

_I haven’t been able to eat properly for days._ “No, not yet.”

“Okay then, lunch it is. Do you have any recommendations?”

_None that came in time._ “I heard the Cesar salad is very good here.”

“Okay, that sounds nice.” As he closed the menu he turned his eyes up to Marco. “Have you decided what you wanted yet?”

_I want you to stay._ “No. Yes. I think I might take the salad as well.” He didn’t sound any bit convincing he knew, or excited. He sounded more like a dead horse; and looked like one too, probably. He had refused to take his eyes off Mario for one second in their conversation, but he didn’t know why exactly. Maybe he wanted to drink in his features for the last time and try and fall in love again, or maybe he wanted to win a staring contest, or show Mario his anger. But he failed in all of them.

“Okay...” Mario said slowly, letting the awkward silence fall. “I’ll get the waitress.”

When Mario had turned his back to him, Marco hid his face behind his hands. “Fuck you,” he mumbled, more to himself than to the world. He knew Robert was right: talking had always been a key in their relationship and they used to be so good it, but now it felt like there was nothing left to say. Or maybe there was too much left to say and they both had no idea where to start, and that was the problem.

It took them a whole meal of small talk and weird silences, before they got to the point. After paying and overtipping, they walked out together and Marco was just about to step into his car and let all go, forget about what he was supposed to do today and just go home and cry, when Mario called him back.

“Marco,” he half-shouted and his voice wasn’t certain or strong, wasn’t like it had been for the last few weeks. His shout was almost a whisper and for a moment he was the eight-year-old boy again, that got into Dortmund’s youth academy, young and shy inexperienced.

“Yes?” Marco replied as he turned around. He could feel his heart racing, so afraid of what might come.

“You wanted to tell me something, didn’t you?” He wasn’t mean or distant anymore, but direct and personal and genuinely concerned, it seemed.

Marco breathed in deep and then let the air out before he stepped toward his friend. “Yes. Yes, I did. I do.”

“Tell me.” Mario smiled, invading Marco’s personal space.

And then all the words escaped from Marco’s mouth, fell between them bare and honest as Marco explained how he had felt and experienced all the things that had been happening for the past weeks. He knew he hurt Mario a couple of times, but these things needed to be said. Marco felt like he lost control over his words and his entire body, and before he knew it he was sobbing on Mario’s shoulder, who was softly caressing his back.

When Marco stopped shuddering, Mario let go again to look at him. Both men’s eyes were red. They were crying on a parking lot in the afternoon, but it was quite and they didn’t care for curious eyes. They weren’t even aware of the world moving and lives happening around them.

“I... I’m sorry it had to happen like this,” Mario apologised, weakness thick in his voice. “You’ve been right all along, it wasn’t right of me. But that doesn’t mean I regret my decision. I’m still going, no matter how I feel about you. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Marco said.

“I’m not going to pretend this wasn’t the hardest decision I ever made, but the thing is; you only get this chance once in a lifetime.”

Marco knew this wasn’t true. Mario was twenty, had his entire career still in front of him, and five years from now every club in the world would still want him.

“I will be back. I will always keep coming back home, but maybe not in the way you’d like me to.”

Marco couldn’t reply to that, didn’t know how to reply to that. He didn’t even know himself in what he way he wanted Mario right now, so he didn’t feel like the conversation had made things more clear so far; yet somehow, he started to feel calmer. He might have been about to lose everything that had once been so dear to him, but maybe that was okay. Maybe they could be friends and send each other short texts all day. Maybe they could meet during breaks or share some laughter during national call-ups.

Mario pressed a long close-mouthed kiss on his lips and ruffled his messed up hairdo one last time, before walking off and getting into his car. Mario stood there on the empty parking lot and watched the Mercedes drive away. He knew Mario was a sobbing mess and that had just driven away to hide his emotions, and Marco felt sorry for him. Because after everything, he couldn’t get himself to cry any more. He was lonely and sad and on the edge of breaking down again, but for now, he was okay. He knew he wouldn’t ever get over Mario; the gap he left would always be there, but Marco knew that, somehow, he would find a way to live with it.


End file.
